Children of the Stars
by SongOnTheBreeze
Summary: There had always been rumors among the races of the galaxies, rumors of a time-ship, filled with ageless children, that escaped from the legendary dead planet of Gallifrey. That some of the most ancient and noble race survived, living on a pitiful little world called Earth. But those stories couldn't be true...could they? / Please R and R. Story better than summary...
1. Prologue - Escape

A/N: So, , it's been awhile. Way too long by my calendar.

So, let's get right to it.

This is my first Doctor Who fic, so, I'll appreciate any contructive criticism offered to me. The connection between the prologue and the first chapter might not make any sense at first, but it'll become apparent a little later. Just stick with me, here. I know what I'm doing.

Disclaimer: I do not, nor have I ever, owned Doctor Who, or any of its characters. *sigh* Alas, I can only pretend like I do.

Enjoy!

* * *

"They'll never survive…"

The words echoed through the ship, loud enough to wake the pale, prone forms that slumbered peacefully in their cryo-tanks.

"You sure aren't very optimistic today."

The Time Lord pursed his lips and gazed at the lifeless Gallifreyian children, motionless and cold in their icy beds, sealed behind thick glass. What some would call life, he called suspended death. "Bit hard to be optimistic when your home planet is dying in towering flames." He replied dryly. "I'm just trying to be realistic, Romana; I'll be surprised if one, maybe two, live through this ordeal."

Romana kept her eyes focused ahead, piloting the ship past chunks of debris that had broken through the weakened barriers of the vortex and pushed into the time they were currently drifting in. She wondered fleetingly how many of these rocks, held snuggly in the darkness, were once a part of her now-crumbling home planet. "Being realistic is rather…depressing, at the moment, Andred. Besides, these are no mere children; they're survivors, handpicked to continue the Time Lord bloodline. You can't honestly believe they would fade that easily." She pushed her cropped blond hair out of her eyes, glancing up at the dark-haired man.

"After everything they've been through, I wouldn't be surprised if the trauma has already…" Andred trailed off as a gentle hand settled on his shoulder, and he turned to give a weak smile to the brunette wild-woman behind him. Leela blinked slowly, her eyes tired but warm.

"Romana's right; don't worry," she said quietly. "I've been around your people long enough to understand their strengths. All the children may not survive, but the ones that do will be stronger than ever."

Andred gazed down the row of cryo-tanks, counting them over again in his mind. Twenty-four young survivors, out of a vast planet of millions, drifting in space in search of a new home. Orphans, foundlings, lost and alone, rescued amid so much death and despair. He moved towards the nearest container, which held a slender, olive-skinned Gallifreyian girl. Her eyes were shut tight, moving just so under their lids, proving life still remained in her small body. She couldn't have been more than 12… He wondered if she was dreaming, or if it was just a reaction to being in the tank. He hoped it was the former, and that whatever she was dreaming was freeing her from the awful reality at hand. He settled his palm on the glass, and leaned closer, his breath fogging the lid and hiding the girl's face from his view. He sighed heavily. "They just all look so…dead."

Romana's hands gripped the steering device a bit harder than necessary, and Leela closed her eyes, biting her lip. Andred went silent; obviously that word was taboo at the moment. He turned away and began typing coordinates into a little device under the navigating screen. Glancing back through the doorway to the storage area where the cryo-tanks were held, he averted his gaze and closed the door. Romana watched him, but said nothing.

Just hours before, they had gathered together the children – plucked from various battlegrounds across the planet – and placed them in their cryo-tanks. Some cried; some pleaded to be left there, on their home; some accepted their fate with an eerie calm, as if they knew going into this icy sleep was the only way. They'd launched from a ruined space-port on the surface of their dying planet, and disappeared into the vortex, pushing past battles that raged through dozens of branches of time and space. Some of the things they'd seen had been horrifying; whole planets being ripped apart, ships being blasted from the stars and sent hurtling to their demise on the rocky surfaces below. One of the worst scenes had been an emergency escape ship, full of countless beings, rising from the depths of a huge blue planet, only to be ravaged and torn apart, flinging its precious cargo out of its sturdy walls. Its former passengers – or what was left of them – were sent floating off into the abyss of darkness, motionless, cold, unseeing. Andred couldn't help but wonder what those creatures thought in their last, desperate moments as they suffocated in the airless space.

The time-ship had finally come to rest in a time far, far into the future, at the very edges of the universe, and was now drifting in a fitful orbit around a long-dead planet, probably affected by the time war that had raged there millennia before. Though their last-ditch effort to save some of the Gallifreyian race upon this ship had been somewhat successful, the glory was bittersweet; too many more had died for the sake of this little group of wanderers for any true victory to be declared. Guilt hung like fog in the pilot's area where the cargo and crew huddled amid the ghostly remains of this most noble and ancient race, and a single thought ran through all their heads: Why?

The decision to send them on this insane mission had been rather rushed after all; the first Dalek ships had began to fill the sky as the final documents were signed and Romana, Andred, and Leela – two somewhat rebellious Gallifreyians and a human girl who wasn't content with her own people - were given a ship and the list of young ones they needed to gather. Really, when thought was logically applied to it, none of them would serve as good mentors to these children; they had all forsaken the traditions and values of their own people to pursue their own ends, for their own sakes, and never regretted it in the process. Yet here they were, years from home, and they lived while everyone else died. It was a bit poetic, in the end, to think the ones that had done things that everyone would consider to be wrong had been the survivors, charged with the safety of the remaining children of the race.

But, of course, there was still _them. _Those two mad, rogue travelers, the Doctor and the Master, unseen and unheard from for the years the time war had been raging. The last time Romana or Leela had even seen hide or hair of those two was way back when things were relatively peaceful and the Time Lords remained undisturbed on their thrones of knowledge. Of course, it wasn't like the Master would be an asset to the Gallifreyians; knowing him, he'd probably sooner pick up the guns of the Daleks than take the side of the people he seemed to believe were no longer his race. But the Doctor…to say that his former companions were hurt by his lack of appearance was an understatement. At the time when they needed him most, he was gone, never there, completely absent. Nothing but a memory. And in their minds, though all of them loathe admitting it, they couldn't help but wonder if maybe he could have changed the course of the war and prevented all this; if, in the end, it was his fault.

It was an understandable idea, after all; the Doctor was known for getting into dangerous ( and sometimes comical ) situations, and was what anyone would call a troublemaker ( though most of the disagreements he caused were completely unintentional and not at _all _for his own amusement…of _course _not ). But the idea of him starting a war for the sake of proving a point did sound like him. He was terribly prideful, and somewhat vain, though those two vices were cancelled out due to his unyielding loyalty and kind heart, his companions never failed to remind themselves ( and anyone else who challenged that fact ).

In the end, the whole idea would be pushed down and filed away, but still, it stayed there, squirming and nagging, despite their efforts to banish it completely. Perhaps it never would leave.

Meanwhile, though, in the silence of the piloting chamber, different thoughts were on their minds, as well as on their lips, but none of them could gather the courage to voice any of them. The most prominent one which begged to be asked was where to go now. What planet would they go to? _Who _could they go to for help? The Doctor, of course, was the obvious answer, but due to his apparent lack of concern for the war, would he actually be willing to help? And if so, how could they find him? And if he could not or would not help, what would they do? They could try to land on a planet as far away in time from the time war as possible, and hope to Rassilon that the natives there would be welcoming. Romana was sure if they mentioned the Doctor, the beings would be hospitable enough. Of course, mentioning the Doctor could also have them all end up tied to a spit roasting over an alien fire. It was a delicate thing, deciding whether or not the Doctor was hated or loved in one place or another. The train of thought was endless, and never seemed to offer any solution, no matter how much it was picked at and turned over and examined.

It really was a hopeless place to be.

"I wish I could power up the K9s," said Romana suddenly. She glanced over at the 'slumbering' robotic dogs, side by side. "They'd know what to do…"

"You know we can't risk doing that," Andred said, although he sounded wistful. "Could drain too much power."

Romana sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I know…"

The K9 Romana had brought back from E-Space*, and the K9 Leela had kept with her had expierienced some wear and tear during the war; a few wires hung from the nose of Romana's version, and Leela's version had gained some greenish colored rust due to the atmosphere of Gallifrey. They still ran and opperated alright, but they needed to be charged more often, and were a bit slower than they used to be. Romana guessed that even robots went through old age, and this was just an example of it.

"Can we at least move them to storage chamber? They'd be a bit more secure there; I don't want them to get thrown around like they were earlier when we launched..."

Andred nodded, and wordlessly scooped up the robots, one under each arm, and carried them into the back.

Romana bit her lip. Wanting the K9s in the back of the ship, out of sight, had been more to appease her guilt than anything else. The little dogs were the last reminder she had of her home, her _real _home, on the TARDIS, with her wild-haired Doctor. It also reminded her of the doubts she'd had about him; of course the Doctor wouldn't have caused all this. He was tricky, and sometimes a little crazy, but certainly not cruel. If he was a cruel man, would he have come back to return her to Gallifrey from E-Space?

She was deep in thought, and didn't notice when a red light flicked on on the controls.

The ship shuddered without warning, and its conscious inhabitants were all shaken roughly.

"Is it…supposed to do that?" Leela murmured, glancing between her husband and her friend.

Romana shook her head. "No…but it's probably just a tremor from another piece of rock breaking through the wall of the vortex; it's terribly weak now, because of all the warships pushing through…"

"Won't that…you know, damage time?"

"It shouldn't, unless something exceptionally large comes through. As long as that doesn't happen the vortex should eventually repair - ."

She was cut off by another rumbling shudder.

The lights flickered, and Andred lunged for the monitor over the coordinates device. "That's no vortex tremor…" he said, taping on the controls. "The engines are shutting down…"

As he spoke, the lights gave one more weak flicker, and shut off. The ship ceased trembling, and settled into an eerie silence. The control room was completely dark, save for a few small red lights on the console illuminating the faces of the three pilots, all of which stared around with wide eyes.

"Andred…" whispered Romana. "Check the cryo-tanks…make sure the back-up generator is working properly…"

The Time Lord nodded, and disappeared through the door into the darkness of the storage area behind the control room. Some time passed before a muffled exclamation could be heard.

Leela frowned. "Andred…are you alright back there?"

There was a pause, than the Gallifreyian's face poked out of the doorway, looking pale and stricken.

"Andred…?"

"You…you gotta see this…" was all that was replied.

Leela and Romana exchanged worried looks, than followed their friend into the storage area.  
It was pitch black inside, but strange, twinkling lights could be seen on the far end of the room. They could see Andred's slightly hunched over silhouette against the faint light.

"What's going on?" Romana said, squinting around, trying to see through the darkness. "What happened?"

There was no reply, but a heartbeat later, there was a humming noise indicating the backup generator had been switched on, and the room was flooded with bluish light.

Collected gasps from the two women could be heard, along with Andred's distressed groan.  
The entire back of the ship, along with the majority of the storage area, was completely ripped off, now nothing more than a ragged hole. The strange lights that could be seen were the stars outside, shining in through the tremendous gap. Andred crouched in grief at the very edge, just a foot or so away from tumbling off into nothingness.

There was shocked silence for several minutes, punctuated by the low hum of the generator.

Finally, Leela broke in.

"…How?"

Andred swallowed, then said slowly, "I think…I think the vortex ripped it off…The whole thing…it was just yanked off the ship and pulled into the vortex."

Another long, drawn out pause. Then,

"How is it that I'm still breathing? I know you two can go without air completely, but…"

"Air-lock…it's like a skin of air surrounding the ship…closes around wounds and keep the oxygen in the ship…" came Romana's hollow-voiced reply.

Leela nodded, turning that information over in her mind before saying, "We need to find it. We've got to go after it…don't we?" She gripped the knife at her side for comfort.

The grief-filled looks that Andred and Romana gave her were enough to answer her question.

Half the ship was gone, lost in the vortex.

Both their K9s had gone with it, still secured in their storage crates.

And with all that, the 24 Gallifreyian children, still sleeping in their cryo-tanks, completely unaware of the dangers ( and adventures ) that awaited them.

* * *

*I'm going by the Virgin New Adventure and Missing Adventure novels, which depict that Romana was able to escape from E-Space and return to Gallifrey with the help of the 7th Doctor.

* * *

Anywho, Chapter 1 will be posted shortly. As always, reviews are the goal of my fics, and like I said, I truly, TRULY appreciate any constructive criticism anyone offers!

I also promise I won't bore you with anymore long A/Ns, so stick with me, please! Until next time!


	2. Paris

Here's Chapter 1 for you. Switches POVs completely, but hey, that's writing for you.

Enjoy!

* * *

The sound of silence abounded in the control room of the TARDIS. If anyone other than the Doctor had been present, it would have been considered a strained, awkward silence; but to the ancient Time Lord, it was a wonderful sound. It meant no extra thoughts to add to his already heavy mind, no other distractions to pull him away from focusing on the flight of his precious time machine. He stayed bent over the control panel, observing with precise eyes the silent blinking of various lights contained in the alien machinery.

Suddenly, the silence was broken with a thunderous roar as the TARDIS groaned to life, like some ancient creature awakening from its slumber. The Doctor moved and worked around it like a master conductor directing a grand symphony, each stroke of the finger and twist of the hand a movement that set off a cacophony of sound that was pure poetry to him. The TARDIS hummed lightly along with the tune the Doctor himself had playing in his head, almost in sync with the various instruments that whirled and whizzed before his eyes. The time machine tilted and wobbled like a drunken sailor, but the Doctor simply gripped the panel tighter and whooped, a wild grin on his face. It was an age-old battle, a spar, and one of the few things the Gallifreyian took any pleasure in as of late.

After all, it was hard to take much pleasure in things when it seemed like everything you loved was being pulled away from you.

The departure of Amy and Rory had been hard, to say the least; each time a friend left him, whether by choice or not, it seemed to chink away another little piece of his already ragged and torn heart.

Before the war, before the loss of his entire race, it had been a bit easier. When a friend left, he refused to call it goodbye, believing wholeheartedly he would see them again soon. Now, he could never be sure; indulging in such a fantasy would be the height of folly. Though he was a Time Lord, he could in no way predict everything that was going to occur, and the closer he got to someone, the more blinded he became to a threat or a vile fate that might be nipping at their heels. Such was so with the companions he'd had by his side as of late; the memories of these people plagued every other thought that milled through his ancient, tortured mind.

River had been there to lessen the blow of the pain, but even she could only do so much. The Doctor wished she could always travel with him, but he knew that was something that could never happen. Knowing that, one day, she was going to perish in that God-forsaken library was enough to set him on edge again.

Reaching into his pocket, he gripped the small book that now contained so much meaning to him. Tucked inside was a page, torn out and a bit frayed around the edges, which held the last words he would ever see from his long-departed friends. His mind wandered to days past, musing over them like he would any fond memories.

His worries tried to push their way to the front of his mind, using the thoughts as leverage. On some days, it would have completely overtaken him.

But for now, for a second, at least, the Doctor was content, moving over his metallic instruments with nimble fingers, all pain or worry or fatigue poured into this outburst of brilliance (or so he liked to call it).

Though the morbid thoughts swirled in the back of his vast and calculating mind, he could manage to lock them away for a bit. He could let himself simply…be. The result was a wild, somewhat reckless side to the sometimes confusing, sometimes perfectly understandable alien; his friends wouldn't approve. They never did when he took any real risks.

_Wvworp. Wvworp. _The TARDIS landed with a creak and a wheeze, and the Doctor let his hands slide from the controls just as the smile slipped from his face. The momentary rush of piloting the time machine wore off quickly, and he leaned against the panel for support, resting his forehead against the 'heart' of the device, and staring into its very soul, wishing for a moment he could join it in there, in its quiet, concealed home.

He felt tired, more tired than he'd ever been in all his regenerations.

For once in his long life, he honestly felt his age; an old man, ancient, alone, doomed to be left behind by time as it sped on ahead. He wondered if all Time Lords had felt this way at some point in their lives. All creatures, of every race, species and planet must have some sort of crisis when they approach the twilight of their lives, he mused. Like a mid-life crisis. Well, plus a few centuries.

The fast pace of time, the loss of so many he cared about…the names of those long gone raised in his mind again like a wandering spirit rattling against the chains of his conscious mind. So much waste. Not to mention the countless lives he'd taken when he chose to destroy Gallifrey, that ever-present guilty voice nagged in the back of his mind. So many futures wasted, so many young lives snatched away. How many Time Lord children had been present on that planet? How many lives that would have had so much more reason to exist than his were stolen in just a few moments of chaos? What was the last thing they thought, as their time came to a close?

How could he ever justify that, ever explain to himself and others why he _had to do it…_

He caught sight of his reflection in the monitor. His hair was mussed and tangled, hanging limply over his dark, hollow eyes. He was pale, paler than usual, and his normally crisp and studious clothing was rumpled and wrinkled, his bowtie partially undone. What a mess…what a pathetic, sorry mess.

He grimaced and shook his head in disgust, simultaneously hitting a switch and pressing a button, sending the TARDIS back into the vortex. This time, he let it drift, turning away from the panel and collapsing onto the workbench, staring ahead vacantly.

So much loss…so much waste…what was the point of him if he couldn't save people? All that time ago, when Rory had been killed in the fake world, reduced to dust, Amy had looked at him, and asked him _why. _What was the point of him? Why was he even still around if his only purpose was to bring pain to others?

Amy had been right about other things, too; the traveling wasn't simply enjoying freedom, it was just running away. And if that's all he was destined to do, was it worth it?

But what are you running away _from?_, that same persistent voice in his head murmured. Was it the guilt of what he'd done, or because facing the hurt of the people he'd left behind would be too much to bear? He wished he knew; out of all the creatures in the universe he'd encountered, the one infuriating, self-centered being that he couldn't wrap his head around was…himself; a strange, nomadic monster that thrived on companionship and vanity, and couldn't function unless someone was around to see his oh so great accomplishments.

Such a pity they'd all left him; they could be here to comfort him and remind him of what a magnificent creature he was, the Time Lord thought bitterly.

The tired Doctor stared at his hands, thinking back to a time when he had just left his home planet, with no worries greater than getting caught. He'd been unscarred, than, guilty of only curiosity and the madcap imaginations and wildness of youth. Such innocence, innocence he'd never seen on any other young being that he'd come close to. He wondered, fleetingly, if he'd ever see or feel it again. _  
_  
The silence that he'd so admired just a few moments before now seemed more like the gateway to insanity.

He settled his head in his hands for a moment, before an alarm bell sounded. He stood and examined the monitor. They were hovering in the vortex very close to…

The Doctor smiled, a genuine, true smile, and typed in a few coordinates, giving the TARDIS permission to land. With another lurch and a well-known wheezing, the TARDIS faded into existence, in the middle of an almost deserted city square.

The Doctor patted the console, and murmured a quick, "thanks, old girl" before stepping outside.

The Doctor's buckled boots crunched into newly fallen snow as he set foot out the door of his time machine, and peered around at the wintery scene in front of him.

Paris…though he'd been aiming for a different season entirely. Memories of running through the city, scarf whipping behind him and the laughter of his companion filling his ears, strolling under bright blooms and admiring the lovely view of the Eiffel Tower swam in his vision. He shrugged off the turn of events – and shook away the melted snow that was beginning to seep between his toes – before setting off into the white wonderland.

As he padded through the icy, snow-piled streets, he passed ice skaters and people on sleds zooming down hills, children with hats pulled tightly down over their ears, smiling and laughing and dancing in the falling flakes. The distant Eiffel tower created the perfect backdrop.

It was beautiful, it really was, and for a moment, the Doctor could stop and pretend like everything was alright, that he was just a simple human man, out for a stroll in the lovely weather.

But he wasn't, and him pretending was no better than a child playing make-believe that they were astronauts.

He could never really be one of them, and the thought depressed him more than it should have. He set off through the snow again, setting his course for an old, familiar building.

* * *

It was warm inside, due to the crush of bodies navigating their way through the vast expanses of the art exhibits. Colors blurred into one mass, moving seamlessly, like water, as humans pushed about. It held some fascination, the movement of life, and normally would have entranced the Time Lord more than any actual art held within the museum, but the Doctor didn't stop to admire it.

He wandered aimlessly among the people, examining various pieces, most of which he'd been present to see created. He could remember precise details about them, too, and it need not be said how much it dulled and ruined the whole mystery and awe that surrounded the items.

No exhibit seemed to hold his interest for more than a few moments, as he shuffled about from one to the other without any particular rhyme or reason.

He skipped the van Gogh section ( too many painful memories ), bypassed the Mona Lisa ( he'd seen enough of Miss Lisa to last him a few more incarnations…or maybe all of them ), and completely disregarded the Chinese vases ( seen one blue-floral rice dish depicting the zodiac, you've seen them all ) instead heading into one of the newly opened exhibits.

It was relatively empty, dark and unwelcoming, except for a few chattering old woman ogling over a statue of a young Greek man, and a couple of teenage boys, snickering at the image of a naked, red-headed woman painted with an almost disturbing attention to detail.

The Doctor settled on a bench in front of a painting that looked suspiciously like an abstract of a Roman soldier and watched the swirls of brushstrokes with completely uninterested eyes.

He was appreciative to the TARDIS for bringing him here, and understood what she was trying to do, but really this was just serving to raise more memories, not just of the Ponds but of companions long since left behind. The guilt was tremendous, weighing down on him like a boulder between his shoulders.

He averted his eyes from the painting when one of the old woman shuffled in front of him, instead choosing to glare at the patterned tile between his feet. He could feel the woman standing over him, watching him, but he didn't have the patience nor the strength to even look at her.

"Everything alright, dear?"

Her voice was heavily accented, and the Doctor couldn't quite place just what language her French speech was concealing. He glanced up at her, and somewhere in his mind he registered that he knew her. But where from?

"Uh, yes…thank you," he said, politely as possible. "Just a bit tired."

The old woman smiled kindly. "I see…I know how you feel; being older than you look can really weigh down on your mind, hm?"

Startled, the Doctor looked up, but the woman was waddling off, back to her fellows. The three of them, chattering once again, wandered toward the next exhibit, and the Time Lord was left wondering if what she'd said was just an innocent comment, or if it held the meaning that he thought it did.

Some time passed before he roused himself from his stupor and stood, turning towards the exit. He passed the two teenagers, who had moved to a new painting, and were nudging and whispering to each other. He glanced at them as he passed, but said nothing.

"I hear that behind the paint on this one, they found some kind of secret message written in some weird language…" said one of the boys quietly, peering at the painting.

"That's a bunch of crap. It's just some kid in a dress," the other boy replied, waving his hand at the image of a young girl, wrapped in a stark white toga.

"No, it's true! They say it's some kind of alien stuff. Girl who discovered it wouldn't say anything other than the fact she'd painted over it. When they went to investigate, they found a bunch of alien junk, like some kind of space ship."

The Doctor paused for a moment, listening.

"How come I never heard about it?" The voice of the young man was colored with skepticism.

"Cause the government wants to keep the whole 'aliens do exist' thing a secret, cause it would make everybody freak out."

That…actually did kind of make sense, the Doctor mused, even if it wasn't true. Only group that really, truly understood what threat aliens could pose to humanity was Torchwood, and even they were a bit more liberal with their knowledge than they themselves realized.

His friend rolled his eyes. "But aliens _don't_exist, you lunatic."

The Time Lord couldn't help but snort at the irony of that comment. The teenagers didn't seem to notice.

"Yeah, well, either way, it's got something written behind it…" He glanced around, noting the guard ( who looked suspiciously like he was asleep, leaning against the wall ) then up at the security cameras. "Here, I'll prove it." Without hesitation, he reached forward, past the velvet rope, and started scratching at the paint.

"What're you doing you moron?!" his friend growled.

The Doctor lunged toward the two boys, about to scold them, when something stopped him in his track. The world gave a tremendous lurch beneath his feet, and he was sure the whole planet was flipping itself upside down with the insanity of the whole situation. Surely time had to stop now.

Behind the scratch marks, just visible between the furrows of paint, were swirly, circular writings. Writing from a long-lost, once-great race.

Gallifreyian writing.

The boy scratching at the painting frowned. "Just a bunch of circles."

"I _told _you," his friend hissed back. "Now let's get out of here before we get arrested or something."

The boy who ruined the painting frowned. "I was sure there was something back there…" Shaking his head, he backed away like he was sure the painting was going to start moving, then whirled around and followed his friend out of the exhibit.

The Doctor stared at the glimpse of writing for a long time, thinking for a moment it would just disappear. When it became abundantly obvious that the message was going nowhere, he moved towards it, to more closely examine it. His sonic screw driver gave a monotonous buzz as he waved it over the image.

The words looked old, most likely dating back to the time war, and were scripted deep into the canvas of the painting. Rage against the human girl who did this coursed through the Time Lord before he settled himself again. There was no way she could have known…To her it was just circles.

But to the Doctor, it meant so, _so _much more.

He pressed both his hands against the painting, ignoring how taboo it felt to do so, and began chipping away large chunks of the paint, trying to reveal more of the message. The paint chips floated to the floor and collected at his feet like bizarre confetti, coating his well-shined shoes in flecks of color.

He'd forgotten he wasn't the only one in the room in his mad haste to free the Gallifreyian words from their painted prison. There was a horrified exclamation from behind him, but it barely registered in his brain until he felt the guard yanking on his shoulders, pulling him away from his work.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" The guard went cross-eyed as a piece of psychic paper was shoved between his eyes as the Time Lord sidled away from his grip and moved back toward the half-scratched away painting.

"Official…art business. Go away," the Doctor barked.

"Sir, I can't just let you – ."

"I _said…" _The Doctor glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and the glare he sent the man had enough force to wither flowers. "_Go. Away."_

The guard swallowed, than nodded and backed away, but didn't leave. "Y-yes…s-sir…."

The Doctor whirled around, pacified, and continued digging at the painting, now with the dumbstruck audience of the guard.

As the last few flecks of paint chipped off, the Doctor backed away, looking almost awed. "Oh…what a _beauty _you are…" he whispered. "Look at _you…._No, really, you're _gorgeous…"_

He waved the screwdriver over it again, and it gave off a high-pitched whining. "Isn't it _beautiful_?!" the Doctor gushed, whirling around to look at the guard.

The guard just nodded; he'd always been told by his boss that it was better to agree with crazy people than challenge them.

The Doctor turned back to the painting, looking like he was about ready to kiss it. "It's genius, really…a landing message carved in such a _human_ thing…a canvas, to make it look like a regular old abstract painting…not sure why anyone would want to paint over it, but hey…"

He turned back to the guard again, positively beaming. "You humans really are a strange race."

The man just paled.

"But I'm missing the point entirely! This is a _landing message, _created by a time-ship, a _Gallifreyian _time-ship! They're created when there are no conscious beings on board to send out a message themselves…so that must mean…"

The Doctor clapped his hands together, making the guard jump.

"Cryo-tanks!" he crowed, and lunged forward, grabbing the guards face between his hands and planting a rather violent kiss on the man's forehead. "Romana was right! Cryo-tanks! Oh, cryo-tanks!"

The Doctor gave another violent wave of his screwdriver over the painting, and read the readout. "Arizona…oh, dear, you are a long way from home. But no matter, at least it's on earth; time machines ARE marvelous things, aren't they? Must be going now! Good-bye!"

And with that, the elated Gallifreyian departed, practically skipping, for his TARDIS, and the guard was left to wonder just _what _exactly had happened, and how the hell he was going to explain it to his boss.

* * *

Chapter 2 is already half-way done. Should be up in the next couple of days.

Reviews, as always, are welcome!


	3. Marie Warford

Took me longer than I expected to get this down. I wrote and rewrote it over and over, and I'm still not satisfied with it. But, oh well, it's mainly just a filler before the real action begins. I apologize that it's so rushed and short, and I promise the next chapter will be much better.

* * *

Marie Warford was a perfectly normal girl, and as such, she had rights to keep her own secrets, no matter how large they may be.

She had lived in this tiny Arizona town for years, and it was a nice place, it really was. It was contained in a valley of sorts, with tall red cliffs surrounding it that glowed like embers when the sun set. The town had a retirement home, and a little golf course, and a small park filled with twittering birds. The houses were adobe-style, in neat rows, with well-trimmed hedges, and manicured lawns ( which consisted mainly of red rock and dirt, but that was just a small drawback. ) There weren't many cars, seeing as there was only one road in or out, and any place you needed to go could be reached by a short walk.

People were polite, and almost always welcoming to newcomers, especially those with stories to tell. Everyone liked a good mystery, and the stranger you were, the more interest you received. One tale told on occasion could keep the old women prattling on to each other in the beauty shop for hours.

It was a place to be respected, and revered, for its peaceful nature.

But to the younger people of the town, always in need of new and exciting things that very rarely arrived there, it was also a place that was completely and irrevocably boring; it practically oozed 'dull' from its red-tinged edges.

Sure, it had a pub and a few chain hamburger restaurants, but other than that, there was nothing to do. There was no cinema, or shopping mall, or even a roller skating rink. And to the few kids or teens unlucky enough to be born in that town, it was the equivalent of living in entertainment hell. All of them looked forward to the day they could climb into that rusty old bus and high-tail it out of there as fast as the 25-mile-an-hour speed limit would let them.

All except Marie.

For someone like her, it was a haven; you see, though she really was perfectly normal by most standards, those secrets she so carefully guarded could shatter and ruin everything.

But here, she just seemed to fit.

She was young, but old, too, and no one could really place her age; she seemed like a child and an adult rolled into one. Her hair was always neat, her clothes impeccably straight and studious ( albeit her sense in fashion was a bit odd ). But if you were asked to describe her, the right words would escape you, and you would be left stuttering out a general description of someone who could be anyone at all.

She had a precise nature with everything she did, but was still considered to be unpredictable; you never quite knew just how she would react when confronted with a new situation, but whatever she did, it would be done perfectly and without complaint or any real comment.

She lived alone, in a house at the far end of the only neighborhood in the town. Out of the small building she ran an art studio, filled with the most delightful paintings you've ever seen. It was a wonderland of swirling color and dancing light, and nothing could keep people from coming to see what lovely new images the girl had created to add to the whole atmosphere of that entrancing place.

She liked to paint animals, namely birds, especially the little robins that pecked along the ground looking for seeds in the spring. She could call the creatures to her with a sweet little whistle, and would sit for hours painting their delicate features, always rewarding them with a handful of seeds for their patience and cooperation. The resulting paintings gave a sense of calm to the people who observed them, almost like a mystic balm to sooth the nerves.

She was an artist, a true artist, and no one seemed to be able to place their finger on just how she managed to wrap up so many things, so many emotions, into a bit of color and imagination.

She was the main feature of this quiet place, and a subject that kept the gossipers talking.

The strangest thing to them about Marie, however, was something that the town had a silent agreement on to keep under wraps should any outsider ask: No one, not a single person, from the oldest man to the youngest schoolgirl, could remember where Marie had come from, or for that matter, anything personal about her, other than her current life.

She had never been to school, or worked a real job. No one could remember who her parents were, or if they were locals or not; whenever she was asked about where her family was, she would simply reply, "Far away," and flash them an angelic smile that made them forget what they were asking about.

Though they would talk among themselves about this strange and quiet girl, it never seemed to go anywhere beyond that; everyone liked her well enough, and to be perfectly honest, they didn't really care where she came from, as long as she stayed there for as long as they could keep her. She was their own personal sun, held willingly captive, to shine a bit of light on their days with her talents of word and brush. She was something to be cherished, protected, just like the little birds she was so fond of painting.

And that was what made the town a haven to Marie; it was so normal, so bland, that the people wanted, _needed,_ a novelty such as her to keep them occupied.

And in return, they would keep her secrets, guarded with loving care.

It was almost a manipulative relationship, when you really put thought into it.

It was all going so well for the girl, though, it really was.

Until that man in the bowtie showed up and turned everything topsy-turvy.

* * *

He'd appeared in town without much fanfare, strolling calmly along the sidewalk of the square with a wide grin on his face. Despite his casual appearance ( ignoring the fez perched at a jaunty angle on his head ), people took notice. They watched him carefully out of shop windows and from across the narrow street, and whispered to each other as he passed.

He, for his part, didn't seem to notice the suspicion. He acted like a tourist, trying to take all imagery of the town in at once, and was, it appeared, unreasonably happy about…everything. When greeted by anyone, he would wrap them in a sudden hug and chatter on about what a lovely day it was before tipping his fez to them and sauntering on.

The townspeople enjoyed oddities, but this was pushing it a bit.

As is with small towns, word went around quickly, and people would gather together in tight groups all around the place, discussing this latest matter.

"He's a weird one alright," the bartender at the pub said to his patron. "I said hi to him when I was out getting a doughnut, and he kissed me on the cheek! Right there, in front of the bakery."

"He sounds British or something," the patron replied. "Don't get too many of them here; maybe that's some kind of tradition over there?"

The other man chuckled. "I don't think so…"

"Did he tell you his name?"

"Just called himself the Doctor."

No one was too awfully concerned with him at first; he was most likely just another passer-by admiring the lovely mesas that surrounded the town, and would probably be gone by the evening, back to whatever place he came from.

They mainly hoped he would stop hugging them.

But when he checked into the little motel off the town square that night, making it very clear that he _did not _want to be disturbed, rumors flew.

"Maybe he's some kind of drug-dealer?"

"…He wears a fez."

"Results of extended drug-use."

A fellow gossiper rolled her eyes. "I highly doubt that's the case."

"Well, what other explanations have you got?"

"I say he's related to Marie."

Silence met that remark. Then someone broke in.

"It makes sense, I guess. They both favor the same…adventurous fashion sense. But, why is he just showing up now?"

"Maybe he didn't know she was here."

* * *

Throughout the night, the Doctor's reputation evolved into many forms, and by the time the sun rose over the red peaks of the mesas, he was something along the lines of a drug-dealer-escaped convict-businessman-hired killer-traveling salesman-relation to Marie-homeless man.

And as he stepped out the door of his room and began his romp down the streets, he now had the addition of a crowd of curious followers padding after him at a safe distance, as if they were afraid he was going to turn and attack them at any moment.

They followed him on his progress through the square, trying to be discreet as possible, but failing horribly. When the Doctor stopped to chatter animatedly to a girl behind the counter of the bakery, one boy tripped over a plant in the corner and sent dirt skittering across the Doctor's shoes. The boy stuttered apologetically, but the Doctor just patted the child on the head, smiled, and moved toward the door, parting the crowd like Moses through the Red Sea.

* * *

Meanwhile, across town, Marie, though she hadn't caught sight of the stranger in person, had heard the rumors regarding him, and kept to her home more then she normally did. She didn't venture into her little cactus garden to feed the swallows, play tag with the neighborhood children, or even lounge on her red-tiled roof with a good book.

Her routine was terribly disrupted by this newcomer, and if there was one thing Marie truly despised, it was not being able to keep up her schedule.

But she knew, oh, how she knew, that if this man was who she thought he was, a little discomfort was worth avoiding him.

As she draped a drop-cloth over a painting of swirling circles and dots, she mused over it all, weighing the odds.

She'd built a nice little reputation here.

And she'd be damned if she was going to let this Doctor person tear it apart.


	4. An Unexpected Guest

Hope everyone had a merry Christmas. I know I did.

I'm asking around to see if anyone would be willing to create a cover image for this fic. If anyone's interested, please PM me.

So, enjoy, and please keep up the reviews. I base my will to live around them…Okay, not really, but I still appreciate them.

* * *

_They were on Earth, sometime in the late 1970's, and for once, danger wasn't dogging them at every turn._

"_Isn't it wonderful how something so primitive can be so…" The Time Lady in the elegant dress trailed off, searching for the right word._

"_Restful?" The Doctor, back in his old 4__th__ body, smiled his bright, toothy grin, and gazed down at Romana as he pressed the pole into the river bottom, propelling them along the gentle rolls of the water. Colors of the surrounding trees and city glinted off the surface, swirling like an abstract painting._

"_No…" She searched for the right word. "Simple. You just push in one direction, and the boat moves in the other." She was distracted by the noisy quacking of nearby ducks, and turned to gaze off into the distance at the beautiful scenes that drifted by. She set her book down and arranged her white skirt around her knees, smiling a bit. The Doctor smiled again, as well._

"_Oh, I do love the spring," Romana said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled around them. "All the leaves and…colors."_

_The Doctor did his best to hold back a laugh, his blue eyes sparking with amusement. "It's October."_

_The Time Lady frowned and furrowed her eyebrows in annoyance. "I thought you said we were coming here for May Week."_

"_I did…"_

"_I'm confused," she replied with a sigh and a hint of disappointment._

"_So is the TARDIS, apparently."_

_There was a long pause. Then,_

"_Oh, I do love the autumn. All the leaves and…colors."_

_The Doctor chuckled under his breath. "Yes, well, with something as simple as a punt, nothing can go wrong. No coordinates, no dimensional stabilizers, nothing. Just the water, a punt, a strong pair of hands, and a pole." He gave his unruly curls a shake to keep them out of his eyes as he guided the boat farther down the river._

_Romana was giving him a funny look, but he pretended not to notice. He always did._

_The boat shook suddenly, sending ripples across the calm surface of the water, as if someone had cast a stone into its midst. The Gallifreyians exchanged puzzled looks._

_"What was that?" The Time Lady asked as the vibration came again. She peered over the edge of the punt, gazing into the water, causing the boat to lean dangerously to the side._

"_Don't do that!" the Doctor said, reaching down toward her to pull her back. The foolish girl was going to tip the boat, and even though the water only came to mid-waist on her and mid-thigh on him, they'd both be soaked and miserable. _

_But before he could set his hand on her, there was a deep rumbling, and the boat flipped, like a great, invisible hand had reached down and knocked the punt from its lazy drift through the city; the pole left the Doctor's hand and fell away into nothingness. Caught off-balance, the Time Lord was sent stumbling backwards. The last thing he saw before tumbling into the swirling water was the face of a stranger, a man, watching with cold indifference in his eyes._

_The moment his head sunk below the waves, everything took a strange appearance, like it was all being turned inside out. The sky darkened, the sounds faded into corrupt and twisted howls, and the buildings, the water, the boat, the stranger's distorted face, they all disappeared. _

_The Doctor, in his current form, bow tie and all, was left standing alone, in a blank, black, flat world. He felt exposed, dead, like whatever this place could be was sucking the life from him, seeking to take away any will to live, to survive. _

_No, no…this wasn't right. None of this could be. What was going on? Where was the city, the water, the peace? He wanted it back. Where was it? He needed to find it. That peace, that lovely calm…How could this have happened? Why had it all shattered? Why? Why?_

"_Simple. You're all alone now." An unfamiliar voice rang through the whole world, the whole universe, echoing, taunting, and it almost deafened the Doctor, crushed him. "Just like you deserve."_

_A thousand voices raised into a cacophony, voices of friends, family, enemies, all hostile, all accusing._

"_Romana?" the Doctor called out, looking around wildly, desperately calling for his friends, any of them, all of them. "Rose? Amy?!"_

_The world went silent, no replies came, and he backed up, ran, tried to get away from this terrible place of misery and isolation. _

"_Where ARE you?!"_

With a cry, the Doctor jolted awake, and very nearly went tumbling out of the chair he was perched precariously in. He gasped and floundered, gripping the arms of the chair like a lifeline as his respiratory bypass kicked in. When he could force air into his lungs, and made his fingers to release the slabs of wood, he slithered from his sitting position and onto the carpeted floor, where he half-crouched, half-sat, his legs shaking too much to support his weight. He looked around, cautiously, almost expecting the room to flip itself over and hurl him back into that self-created hell.

It didn't, and after a few minutes, and many deep, calming breaths, he moved carefully to his feet, his boots shuffling on the carpet. He tugged at his bow tie, readjusting it, and tried to brush away a piece of hair that was clinging stubbornly to his sweat-slicked forehead.

He hadn't dropped off like that in a while; how stupid of him. He took another deep breath, and shook himself to try to clear those images away.

For the most part, the shock of this situation with the Gallifreyian message had kept his mind off his normal self-punishing, depressing thoughts, and he supposed that was good; less time worrying, more time working on figuring out just what was going on here.

But that dream…that nightmare. It was always in his mind, just behind his eyes, whether he was awake or asleep. It had been repeating itself since he got here, a little over a week ago, and each time, it had been the same thing: a peaceful moment shared with a friend, shattered by a blank world and the face of a man he had never met, with voices calling to him and accusing him of leaving them behind. Voices of Time Lords, of humans, of everything he'd never been able to save. But not all of them he knew; some he'd never heard before in his life, and that was what worried him.

Maybe they were voices of the things he wouldn't be able to save in the future.

He gave himself another shake, and filed that train of thought away for another evening spent in lonely solitude.

He had work to do, and musing like a tired old man wasn't going to do any good. He moved to the window and opened the blinds just enough to shed some light into the dark room.

Grey, pre-dawn light filtered in through the shaded motel windows in slats, drawing bars like a prison cell across the small space. The eerie glow illuminated the complicated (and somewhat ridiculous looking) machinery that filled the room, buzzing, humming and hissing quietly. The Doctor rubbed his eyes wearily and moved toward the mechanisms, pressing buttons and flipping switches with a detached air.

To anyone else, the whole mess just looked like some convoluted trap thought up by a child and created out of useless junk, but the Doctor seemed to know well enough what he was doing; he twirled something that resembled an old hood ornament for a car, and set to spinning something that looked suspiciously like a pin wheel. It wasn't a joyous orchestra like when he conducted the TARDIS, with quick movements and deft hands, but slower, monotonous, repetitive. Something that had lost its magic a long time ago.

The jumbled-up contraption shifted to a steady humming, and soap bubbles issued from one side of it, pooling down on the floor and creating a dark stain. The monitor – which appeared to be the TV that had been set up in the room for guests – buzzed to life and gave off a high-pitched noise that sounded a bit like a sonar signal. The Doctor tapped the screen impatiently, and a moment later, the sonar stopped and a piece of paper - as well as a bagel - popped out of a toaster sitting on the night stand. The Doctor removed both items and read the readout as he munched on the toasted bread.

As he reached the bottom of the page, he sighed around his mouthful of food. Nothing, nada, zip. This was starting to get ridiculous. This thingy was supposed to be able to pick up readings from alien machinery within a fifty mile range, and so far, all it had managed to do was detect the TARDIS and make pretty good breakfast food.

He was starting to worry now; maybe he'd gotten the coordinates from the painting wrong, or misread the directions. Or maybe…maybe it wasn't even a landing message to begin with, just a misinterpreted letter from long-lost, long-dead people. Maybe the Doctor had let his emotions get the better of him again. Amy always did say he had a habit of doing that.

But thinking of Amy just made him hurt, so he turned his mind in the direction of the painting. But that just ended up backfiring and making him angry, and when he was angry, he got determined. And once again, for the inth time that week, his emotions (or non-emotions, because he told himself he had those silly little things perfectly under control) just sent him in a confusing full circle that made little sense, and he was content to wait it all out, convincing himself that what he was looking for _was _here and that he _would _find it.

As anyone who knew the Time Lord could tell you, he despised waiting; it was one thing that humans did that he just couldn't wrap his mind around. But, this time, just this time, he was willing to do it, to wait out the days. It seemed weak, and such an un-Doctor-ey thing to do, but if things turned out the way he was hoping they would, it would be worth it in the end.

He turned his attention back to the machinery-detecting thing-a-ma-jig.

It'd taken him some time to build this mechanism, and, if he was being completely honest, he'd outdone himself, considering the limited amount of supplies he had to work with. It would have been more ideal and private to use the TARDIS, but due to the risk he might be encountering rogue Time Lords like himself in the near future, he figured it best to hide the old girl away until he could settle things a little better.

Besides, he'd had no serious interruptions; no one had come to bother him, not even the motel's workers, and he assumed this was most likely due to the large amount ( or what he interpreted to be a large amount ) of American currency that he'd dropped on the desk in front of the manager when he'd first requested a room. The man had seemed to be happy enough to accept the stacks of money, and didn't challenge the Doctor in the slightest, promising he'd keep the President himself out of that room should he come knocking.

Really, though it wasn't the most glamorous place to be, it was perfect for his work.

Across the room, the only electricity outlet available, which had every kind of plug and extension cord imaginable shoved into it, sparked and flamed up, setting the curtain from the window on fire.

Okay, maybe _perfect _wasn't the word for it…

He really needed a break.

* * *

"You remember absolutely nothing about it? Nothing? At all?"

"Yes…I've already told you…"

The woman behind the counter gave him a half-lidded, annoyed look, and tapped an extremely impatient rhythm on the smooth marble surface she was leaning, slump-shouldered, against. Her body language just seethed aggressive, and if the Doctor wasn't accustomed to such greetings here, he would have been shocked at just how hostile she was.

The Time Lord tugged at his bow tie nervously, pronouncing each word carefully. "You're absolutely sure?"

"You think if I remembered something about that damned thing, I wouldn't come running to tell you, just to get you out of my hair? For God's sake, I. Don't. Remember." She punctuated her last statement by slamming her hands flat onto the counter.

Okay. Time to retreat. "Yes. Right. Sorry…I'll be leaving now."

The woman said nothing, just scowled at him as he fled quickly to the door.

The Doctor paused at the threshold, glancing back to give her his most winning smile. "Thanks for your coop-"

He was answered by a large object impacting the wall a few inches from his head. He didn't wait around to try to identify just what it was. She was either a terrible shot, or just getting warmed up, and either way, he didn't want to be the target she practiced on.

Out on the sidewalk, the bright sun glancing off the top of his fez, he evened his breathing and looked back over his shoulder at the little general store, making a mental note not to venture back in there unless he was in need of more bagels.

Over the past several days, as he'd pushed on in his investigation, asking more and more questions regarding the painting with the Gallifreyian writing and the one who'd created it, the people had grown less curious and more hostile. The crowd that had followed him his first says there dispersed altogether, and went back to their own business, leaving him pretty much on his own. Most refused to answer his questions, and a few had even taken to ignoring him completely, staring off into the air when he approached. It was like someone had thrown a switch on the entire town, turning against him, and he was determined to find out just what this place was covering up, and more importantly, how the painting tied into it.

The most information he'd managed to gather was that a young woman by the name of Marie Warford had painted the image, and after much controversy (which no one seemed to be able to tell him much about) had sold the now mildly famous work of art to the museum in Paris for a ridiculously small amount of money. No one knew where she'd gotten the canvas from, or had seen it in her shop prior to it being sold, but no one thought much about it, or didn't seem to, anyway.

When he'd gone to pay a visit to Ms. Warford, she hadn't appeared to be home, and a young man on the sidewalk had informed him no one had seen her out of her house in quite awhile. When the Doctor had said he'd thought he would see if she would like some company, the boy hastily changed his story, saying she'd left several days ago and probably wouldn't be home for a long time. Before the Doctor could question him about this, however, the boy had run off, disappearing into one of the houses farther down the street.

Each day, twice a day, the Doctor had returned to see if he could speak to this mysterious girl, and each time he knocked on the door he was met with a silent, dark house, and shaded windows with no signs of movement within.

He'd honestly started to believe the boy's story about Marie being away from home, when he'd noticed it: birdseed. Each morning, when he'd pay his first visit of the day, the bird feeders would be full to the brim. When he'd return for his second visit that evening, they would be empty due to the large amount of birds eating off them. Seeing as no one was home, he would have figured that the feeders would remain empty. However, when he would return each morning, they would be inexplicably filled once again, with birds twittering happily all around.

Someone was most certainly still living in this house, and was obviously avoiding him at all costs. But why? Why would someone need to stay away from him so bad that they refused to leave their house, except in the dead of night?

He'd been tempted a few times to sneak to the house and hide outside, waiting until its occupant had emerged to feed the songbirds, but had dismissed the idea, knowing that if he was caught, the few people who were still speaking to him would just close up completely, and then he would have nothing new to work on.

So he waited, sometimes patiently, sometimes not, until this reclusive girl decided to grace him with her appearance. And he was willing to wait if it meant learning the secrets behind this whole affair.

Currently, the clock in the square chimed noon, and the Doctor tried to ignore his rumbling stomach, setting off through the quiet streets. He was doing a good job of pushing down his hunger until his defiant stomach gave a tremendously loud growl, and the Time Lord gave in with a sigh. He loathed venturing anywhere near that café, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

* * *

It took him awhile to maneuver his way through the lunchtime crowd and find a place to sit, right near the door. He hunkered down with his food, absent-mindedly nibbling at the sandwich, and swirling the straw in the glass of pop around with his pinkie finger. The extremely aggressive glares he was receiving from almost everyone in the restaurant were making him uncomfortable, to say the least, and he missed it when she walked in, brushing by his shoulder.

The mood in the room changed as there was a loud greeting from the now-smiling woman behind the counter to the young newcomer. "Hello, Marie, dear! Been such a long time since we've seen you!"

The Doctor very nearly choked, and sent a fork skittering to the floor in his haste to stand up, to see the girl. He calmed himself, however, realizing that drawing attention to himself would just cause trouble. He settled down once more, crossing his legs neatly, and waited.

* * *

_Sunny today, _Marie thought as she shaded her eyes with her hand, carefully balancing a wrapped parcel in the crook of her arm. She gave a shake of her head, trying to free her vision from the mousey-brown hair that flopped down into her face. _Last time I was out, it was raining so much…_

It was a terrible risk, really, venturing out when that crazy man in the fez was still around, asking questions, nosing into everyone's business, challenging the cover she had so carefully constructed. But even though she enjoyed solitude once in awhile, she preferred it in small doses, and just hated being all coped up. Even with the danger of having the secrets escape, she was still a social being at heart.

Besides, she'd managed to worm in rumors among her fellow townsfolk to make them distrust the bowtie-clad man, and that would be enough to keep him subdued for now.

So she'd come out, into the streets, her hair down and in her most cheery dress, to flounce along the streets and hear the numerous compliments that were thrown her way. She did enjoy the company of these humans, not just because they found her so intriguing, but because they really were an interesting bunch; she supposed she could see why the Doctor preferred their company over that of his own kind.

She'd been reading up on him during her days of isolation, and though a lot of it was so classified even she couldn't reach it, you could still find many traces of him in public records; mentions of a nameless man saving people from various disasters, only to disappear without a trace, so many good deeds done, going unrewarded and pretty much unnoticed by the vast majority of the population.

These people owed that mad man a lot.

That didn't mean Marie trusted him. Her training told her she shouldn't.

Of course, that same training also told her not to venture out of a safe place when there was abundant trouble, so she supposed the rules were just being thrown to the wind at this point. She didn't really care either way.

It had been the dreams, really, in the end that had forced her out of the house and back into the company of others. Those terrible dreams always filled with despair and loneliness of such strength that it crushed her. She knew the feelings couldn't be her own, but somehow they wormed their way into her own memories, happy or sad, and injected a kind of sickening darkness into the whole thing. Faces she didn't recognize screamed at her in hauntingly familiar voices, and each time she'd woken up in a cold sweat, she'd refused to return to sleep. The dreams had been rattling in her mind since she'd first gone into hiding just those few days ago, and when she finally had the chance to break out of her self-made seclusion, she took it.

The café had been an afterthought, when the bells had chimed the lunch hour. She'd really only been meaning to take this parcel to the post office to be mailed to HQ in Cardiff, but her rumbling stomach combined with her desperation for contact with other beings had driven her to put off the errand in favor of a nice lunch. It would only take maybe an hour more, and if she was careful, she could conceal herself among the crowd in case the Doctor walked in.

The bell over the door in the restaurant had jingled its normal merry tune as she'd stepped in, and she was immediately greeted by the warm smiles and happy voices of the waitresses inside. They knew her well, could list off her order by heart, and were always polite enough with her. This time, however, the kindness seemed strained, and they stared at her with alarmed eyes, darting from her to the front of the café. Like they were trying to get her to look at something…She disregarded it as a silly human thing, and placed her order.

She didn't even notice him until after she'd received her food and gone to her usual seat in the back. She cursed herself for being so unobservant; she must have passed him even as she was coming in the door. Sitting there by himself, leaning back casually and observing her with a curious expression, he looked like any other person in the room. Like any other _human…_

_Human with an odd fashion sense, anyway…_She thought with disgust. She hunched over, her back to him, and focused on her food. The crowd would keep her concealed enough for now, but as soon as it cleared out…

She could feel his eyes on her, like they were burning into the back of her head. _Don't come over here…don't._

She ate in a hurry, snuffing down the scalding tea in her cup with a very unladylike slurp. Gasping at the heat, she stood, grabbing up her package and heading towards the door. Just walk by him…don't even look at him…if he speaks to you, just ignore him…

He wasn't there anymore. His table was empty, the chair scooted in neatly and everything precise and clean, like he'd made sure to wipe off the table before departing. Marie breathed out a sigh, and, composing herself, flounced out the door.

Safe…for now.

But he was so close.

* * *

It was evening by the time she returned home, having found excuses to stay out longer then she originally intended. She hadn't caught sight of that blasted Doctor, and his apparent disappearance had made her bolder. She was confident now, and decided she'd go out again tomorrow. Perhaps even open up the shop for a few hours…

The door was locked, the shades drawn, lights out; nothing out of the ordinary about her home. She ravaged through her purse for the key, and producing it, slid the door open and slipped inside, closing it carefully behind her.

She didn't bother to turn on the lights, knowing the way to the kitchen by heart, even in the blackness. Tossing her purse haphazardly onto the counter, she popped open the fridge and retrieved a bottle of red wine from within, getting a glass from the cabinet overhead.

She didn't notice the glass of alcohol, already poured but abandoned, half-empty, on the counter, nor the open box of jam cookies, torn open and sprawled out across the surface top. In the gloom, she most certainly didn't see the top of a fez peeking up over the edge of the armchair in the living room, or hear the quiet tap of buckled boots against the hardwood floor.

If she'd been paying attention, looked at the signs, she would have most certainly not sat down in the armchair opposite the occupied one, kicked off her high heels, and curled her legs up under her, ready to relax after a day on the town. It wasn't until slender fingers reached up and turned on the lamp that she screamed and dropped the glass of red wine, hearing it shatter on the floor.

The Doctor made a face, and then smiled. "Really…I would expect a friendlier welcome…You should be kinder to your guests."

* * *

Before anyone asks, yes, those first few paragraphs are from Shada, and yes, I ship DocxRomana. Don't worry, though; this isn't a romance fic, and it won't be brought up…much.

Like I said before, reviews are love.


	5. Confrontation

Happy New Year, everyone. Have a glass on me. As long as it's not alcoholic…Oh, who am I kidding?

This was pretty rushed *cough* my friend's fault *cough* so forgive me….

As always, reviews and constructive criticism are highly appreciated.

* * *

Marie was on her feet in a flash, eyes focused on him, and reaching instinctively to her side. When her hands met thin air where her holster usually was, she bit her lip. Her stun gun was in her purse…Blast it. She cursed herself for being so cocky; she should have known better.

The Doctor remained silent, watching her, observing every movement she made. He was perfectly calm, completely unconcerned with her hostile nature. His almost smug demeanor made her blood boil in anger. How dare he…

"Who are you? What do you want?" She took a few steps back, towards the counter, feigning fear. Just a foot more, and she could reach her hand bag…Her gun was in the side pocket…just a little farther…

She'd teach this rogue a lesson.

"Oh, you know exactly who I am," the Doctor replied cheerfully, his face cracking into a smile that displayed his precise, straight teeth. "You've been avoiding me for awhile now, so surely you have quite a bit of knowledge about my whole story, or else you would have just spoken to me up front." He popped a biscuit into his mouth, chewing slowly, letting the silence stretch.

After what seemed like an eternity, he swallowed, and continued. "And spreading all that nonsense about me to your neighbors, just so they'd stop answering my questions… that was quite a smart move, but not enough, Marie. I decided to take matters into my own hands." He gestured about himself, at the glass of wine, the open box of cookies on the counter, before crossing his hands in his lap again, deceptively casual.

"This is breaking and entering," was all Marie replied, frowning; she couldn't think of anything else to say while seeing that disarming, friendly smile on his face. She reached a hand out behind her slowly, her fingertips brushing the handle of her purse.

"I didn't break a thing!" The Doctor exclaimed, indignant, making a face. "Well, other than that bag of biscuits. I must say, the American ones aren't as good…" He tapped his chin thoughtfully, staring off into the shadows. "Must be the recipe. Anyway, I just used my screwdriver to open the door…such primitive locks…I expected better of you."

Good…while he was looking away…

The purse hit the floor hard as she yanked her stun gun out from the side pocket. She brought it up to point at him before realizing it was…a banana.

What?

"Oh, were you looking for this?" The Doctor waved the stun gun, clasped in his own hands, at her. "I was just examining it…lovely piece of technology. Torchwood, if I'm not mistaken." He looked at her, his eyebrows raised, twirling the gun on his pointer finger. "Now where did you get something like this?"

How did he…? Damn, he was good…Best keep him talking.

"What do you want from me?" Marie allowed herself to slouch against the counter, looking much like a sullen child. "Why can't you just leave me alone?" It took every ounce of maturity to convince herself not to stick her tongue out at him.

The Doctor looked taken aback. "Well, it's not because you're particularly interesting or anything...You just having something I want. Or used to."

The painting…Of course. She nearly sighed out loud out of exasperation, but stopped herself. He would only know about the painting, nothing else...play it safe for now, see if that really was the case; wouldn't do to be revealing anything important. "And what would that be?"

"An image…a painting."

Bingo. "A painting? You break into my house, late at night, for the sake of one of my _paintings?"_It wasn't hard to inject an incredulous tone into her voice; he was just so…absurd.

And intriguing…most assuredly intriguing.

Where did that thought come from? She quickly banished it away.

The Doctor continued his line of dialogue, as if she hadn't said anything. "It's a very special one, a certain one." The whole time he'd been speaking, he'd remained in the armchair, leaning back, at ease. Now, he tensed and stood up, pacing the room. He made a vague gesture in Marie's direction. "One with these odd swirls, just under the first layer of acrylic…"

She weighed the odds, whether she should say something or not. She figured it wouldn't cause too much trouble, so long as she was careful. "You mean…the one with the Gallifreyian writing?"

Now it was the Doctor's turn to be surprised. "How do you know about that?"

Marie chuckled. "I know Gallifreyian when I see it…" she replied cryptically.

* * *

His whole 'intimidation persona' was slipping drastically with each word she uttered.

He'd mainly just wanted to speak to her briefly, but this was turning into a real show. His mind was working out ways to get her to talk more, like trying to solve a puzzle.

Needless to say, it wasn't exactly a challenge to him. She was just too easy.

"And how is it that you know the language?"

"None of your business." Her reply was quick and icy, but amusement was swimming around in her tone.

"Oh, you're quite wrong. Anything to do with my home planet is my business." The Doctor tapped his fingers against his leg thoughtfully, studying her reaction. "I suppose you were already alerted to what I am at HQ?"

Her mocking grin slipped. Her persona was falling, too. "I…don't understand what you're talking about." She crossed her arms, and glared at him. "I got rid of the painting you're looking for years ago. Sold it to a museum in Paris. But you already know that, don't you?"

He twirled the gun on his fingertip again. "It's another one that I want. Very similar. Same strange markings." Same message. Same little spark of hope to him.

"Got rid of that one, too…they were taking up room."

"There's plenty of room here." He gestured about the spacious house, at the art studio in the back, cluttered with brushes and paints and canvases. "Why sell?" Make her sweat a little; make her think he knew way more than he did. Because, really, right now, he was just grasping in the dark.

The tiny amount of information he'd managed to gather so far just from the way she was reacting to his questions was helpful, but not enough. He needed more. He needed the truth. And he was going to get it, whether she liked it or not.

"I have my reasons. It's my house, not yours."

"Correction: Torchwood has its reasons for making you get rid of them."

"I don't even know what Torchwood is."

The Doctor narrowed his eyes, and stepped closer to her, arms folded behind his back. She made an attempt to step away, but was thwarted by the counter behind her. He stopped within just a few feet of her, and produced the stun gun, holding it out to her, for her to take. She did so, a bit more desperately then she meant to, he could tell.

"Basic stun gun, alien made, weapon used frequently by Torchwood…Bit out of date, so you've most likely received it from a group that doesn't often associate themselves with the main branch…"

He knew exactly which group that was…Jack. Too proud for his own good.

The Doctor paused, amusement coloring his expression, then continued. "Lapel pin…in reality a mini tracking device, allows agents to locate you should danger arise." He touched the tiny diamond-shaped pin, attached carefully to the shoulder of her shrug. "And, of course, the most obvious indication…" He tapped the tip of her nose with his finger; she flinched away. "You, my dear, are in no way human."

He said all of this quickly, not even taking a breath between sentences. He didn't like being this intimidating, not usually, but there wasn't much choice, at this point; she didn't seem to respond to anything but threat.

She eyed him. "Neither are you…Human, I mean."

The Doctor wagged a finger. "Fair point." He returned to his armchair, making himself comfortable. Best back off now, let her relax a bit. "So, now that you've got your toy back…what's an alien doing, associating – sans violence, I hope - with Torchwood?"

He flipped the information he'd gotten over in his mind, studying it carefully.

She was an alien, most likely stranded here, but was in no hurry to get off the planet.

She was with Torchwood, in some form or another.

She had gotten rid of the Gallifreyian messages rather hastily, for a reason he needed to know.

She was being cautious, carefully avoiding certain lines of conversation. Big secrets to keep.

He glanced toward the art studio, at a painting covered carefully by a drop cloth.

And she was hiding something he wanted. Just a bit longer.

He smiled at her.

* * *

That smile on his face again…She hated and loved it at the same time. He was charming, she'd give him that.

Didn't change the fact he was the enemy.

She was feeling more relaxed around him, though.

That wasn't a good sign.

"Tell you what." She pushed herself away from the counter, smiling a fake smile. "You answer a question, I'll answer one. A trade." Whether or not I tell you the truth is up to me, she added silently.

"A game." The Doctor replied dryly.

"If you want to look at it like that." She drawled, eyeing him. "First question: why're you here?"

He rested his temple against his knuckles, still smiling. "I want to know more about that painting."

"That's not very specific."

"You didn't specify that I needed to be specific."

Jerk.

"My turn." He thought for a long moment. "Why did you join Torchwood?" He paused again, then added, "Be specific."

Huge jerk.

"First group I encountered after my crash…they told me things that made sense." She moved to the other armchair opposite his, and collapsed into its embrace, suddenly feeling exhausted. "When you come tumbling out of a ship, on a completely different world, disoriented and with no memory of where you came from, you cling to anything that's understandable…"

She hadn't meant to say that much; it just came spilling out. Maybe he was working some kind of mind trick on her.

To be honest, if he was, she didn't really care.

Wow…that was a big change from her former line of thought.

She didn't much care about that, either.

The Doctor was watching her again, his eyes curious and thoughtful and strangely…sad. Why was he sad? Did he pity her? She hated it when people pitied her. She closed her mouth pointedly, and looked away from his honest eyes.

Honest eyes…

Warm, honest, kind eyes…

No doubt some kind of mind trick he was pulling on her.

"My turn." She bit her tongue lightly, trying to think of something good. "Why are you so concerned about this painting? Why have you just shown up now?"

"That's two questions."

"Sue me."

He laced his finger together, speaking slowly. "The words on the canvas are, obviously, from my race…a landing message, or emergency message, depending on how you look at it. I want to know where it came from, and if the ship it came from…" He sighed. "Has any living beings still on board. As for why I've just shown up now…well, I guess the secret was well kept."

His shoulders sagged, and he looked weary. Such exhaustion…Marie didn't think she'd ever seen anything so…upsetting.

Something she'd heard about him was that he never traveled alone. Was his companion off somewhere, hiding, waiting? Or was there no companion, just him on his own? What had happened to his comrades, if that was the case? The thought made her shiver. That would be a pretty lonely life.

Was he really as bad as they told her he was? Could this strange, ancient creature really be such a huge threat?

She shook her head, trying to clear it, and focused on the situation. Musing over this guy's personality was just going to make her head hurt.

She waited for him to ask a question, and when he didn't, she murmured, "Your turn, you know."

He didn't respond for a long time, staying incredibly still. Then he asked, in the smallest of whispers, "So you joined them, Torchwood, because of that? Because they made sense to you?"

Her voice shook slightly as she answered; she wasn't sure why. "I didn't join…not really. I just sort of…sold them my knowledge, in exchange for a quiet life."

"Where did you crash?"

She didn't bother to remind him it wasn't his turn; she didn't think she wanted to know that much more about him, anyway. And they were both cheaters, in the end. "Just outside of town…this town. Torchwood did a good job of covering it all up. Not a single story on the news, nothing on the internet, and anything that did leak through was quickly dispatched and hidden…" She swallowed slowly. "Like it never happened."

The Time Lord chuckled, suddenly coming out of his dark mood. "They're good at that…Always have been." He stopped, caught up in memories, judging by the look on his face, before asking, "And you can't remember a single thing about where you came from? Nothing at all?"

"Nothing but the painting."

"You remember it? Where it came from?"

"Yeah…it's one of the few things I brought from my ship. Just grabbed it as I was being pulled from the wreckage."

"No idea how it got there?"

"None…"

Silence fell, punctuated only by the crunch of cookies and swish of wine in a glass. She noticed he wrinkled his nose whenever he took a sip of the liquid; if he didn't like it, why was he drinking it? Seemed strange to be quaffing liquor while he was interrogating her.

Torchwood told her a lot about him, but they certainly didn't give his quirky behavior justice, or tell about his knack for staying so casual and eloquent; he was distracting, and so terribly intriguing. They'd prepared her to protect the secrets from him, to make sure he never discovered the truth. But they didn't tell her it would be so difficult just talking to him.

It was honestly terrifying to her.

While she'd been thinking, he'd spoken again. What'd he say?

"Huh?" She looked at him, feeling unusually guilty.

"I said, do you think you could show me this crash? Where your ship hit the earth?"

No, no…this was bad. This was very bad. He'd lulled her into a false sense of comfort. Tricky.

"I…ah, no, I'm afraid I couldn't…too many…bad memories…"

That was a weak lie. Surely he didn't believe her.

"I see…." His expression was unreadable. "Well, if that's the case, can you please give me the location? I'd like to see it for myself."

…Was he stupid?

"No!" She practically bolted out of her chair. At the Doctor's surprised expression, she corrected herself quickly. "It's still under lockdown by Torchwood, you see…I couldn't possibly…I could get into a lot of trouble. I'm not supposed to interfere there anymore."

The Doctor nodded, his face still too blank to interpret anything from. "You allowed them to kick you out of your own ship?"

"Not like I wanted to go back there. This is my home now."

"You haven't seen it since the day you crashed?"

"Nope."

He studied her curiously, then nodded. "I see…I guess I'll just have to wait around here until Torchwood decides to let us in, then."

"Yeah…wait, what?"

He grinned at her, a wide, happy grin. Was he bipolar? "I'll just stay here! Right here, in your house! Plenty of space, after all. That way, the moment they open the crash site to the semi-public, you can point me right over there!"

He jumped to his feet, and threw a skinny arm around her shoulder, nearly knocking her over. Deffinantly bipolar. "We'll be great friends, you and I! The Torchwood alien and the Time Lord!"

This was in no way going as planned…Anything to keep him away, she supposed. "Yeah…sounds…_fantastic."_

"Doesn't it though! I'll just need to go back to my room and gather my things…but first, before I go, I really do want to see those lovely paintings of yours!"

* * *

She tried to stop him, to grab his arm before he could pull the drop cloth off the nearest painting, but he was too fast for her; centuries of running from all types of aliens and monsters really lended you speed when you needed it. The white sheet hit the floor before she could even touch him.

He traced his fingers ever so carefully over the Gallifreyian writing, burnt onto the canvas. All friendly demeanor had gone; his back, turned towards her, was straight as an iron bar. He felt sentimental, and rather empty, looking at the words. Like they were pulling his strength out of him. "Lovely…very lovely."

Behind him, Marie took a shaky breath. "You knew that was here the entire time, didn't you?"

The Doctor kept his back turned to her as he replied. "Of course. It was very easy to sense." He'd known it was there the moment he'd set foot in the house.

Desperation really increased the senses.

They remained silent for several minutes, his fingers still on the writing. He could feel her eyes burning into the back of his neck, waiting, watching.

He was, too.

Waiting for the answers.

Waiting to know if he really was alone.

* * *

Finally, he broke the stillness. "No more lies; no more deceiving. I want to know why Torchwood is trying to hide things from me. You know exactly what's going on around here, exactly what's on that ship, your ship." He turned to her, his eyes alarmingly dark, but tired, that same weariness she saw on him earlier. "Don't you dare lie to me anymore."

Any last resolve she had to hide everything vanished then and there; it was pointless. She turned away from him, and headed to her seat, sitting heavily. "I've kept these secrets for a long time, Doctor…decades. As long as I've lived here."

His demeanor changed once again to a quiet, comforting sort of personality; he sat down in his own chair, leaning towards her. "I know…but now's the time for it to come out. I promise you, if I can help it, I will make sure your life here stays the same."

She couldn't help but smile; a small, rather bitter smile, but a smile, nonetheless. "I'm sure you will…That doesn't mean you'll be able to, though." Marie leaned back, looking at the ceiling. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything." He was leaning as far forward as he could now, staring at her earnestly. "Who you really are…what these paintings mean…the crashed ship…Torchwood, trying to cover it all up. What's going on? What are they keeping from me?"

"It's not just Torchwood trying to keep secrets from you, Doctor." Marie looked him in the eye, suddenly desperate for everything to be laid down, for it all to be over.

He raised an eyebrow. "Then who else is? Who else is hiding things from me?"

"The whole of planet Earth."

* * *

Chapter 5 is in the works. Wish me luck.


End file.
